Page 77 of Sharpen Your Claws

His fingers bruised his arms from how fiercely he held them.

“What aren’t you telling us? There is a truth you have yet to share that burdens you so greatly that you dare to believe your life is lesser than all others. I don’t understand and I won’t unless you tell me,” he said.

“I killed people, Henry.”

“You killed monsters.”

“Yes, they were the most monstrous of men. I told myself they deserved it and I still believe that. The military didn’t teach strength, it taught submission and violence. There were those who dealt pain, and those who fell to it. Cruelty was looked upon as necessary to ensure the masses remained sturdy, but it wasn’t sturdiness they created, either. It was broken minds and shattered wills and loathing. Men fought and killed and raped and they were applauded for it,” he spat, feeling as if the words soiled his tongue.

“I learned quickly that there were those who would never see justice, so I gave out the one justice I could. But I know how our parents would react, how you and our brothers will react knowing that I’ve stooped so low as to not only condone such violence but support it unequivocally. The hatred I have toward myself isn’t guilt. I do not regret a damn thing I did to them, but I regret who I have become.”

Henry stepped ahead, blocking his brother’s path. He caught William’s hands, easing them from his arms where his nails had pierced flesh.

“You do not need to explain yourself to me,” he said, comforting as the morning sun.

“Don’t you want to know what I did? To know what kind of brother you now have?”

“I know exactly what kind of brother I have,” he said sternly. “William, what you went through will stay with you all your life. I don’t say that to be cruel. I am saying that you survived something you never should have had to deal with, and that leaves a scar. I hope those scars heal as well as they can, but some won’t, and I certainly don’t expect them to. Our family doesn’t, either. That doesn’t mean we don’t love you, that we dislike anything about who you have grown into being.”

“But you have thought about it, haven’t you? Who I could have been?” he asked.

“Don’t we all?” Henry countered. “We’ve all imagined other paths we could have taken. I imagine who you may have been if the king hadn’t taken you. I curse him for putting you through that, but I don’t curse you for what you went through and you shouldn’t curse yourself, either.”

“I’ve been trying.”

“I know. Sometimes trying is all we can do. That isn’t anything to beat yourself up about.”

“But what if all I do is try, and nothing gets better?”

“What do you consider better?” Henry asked.

“I don’t know.”

“If you don’t mind me saying, you are doing better. William, when you came home, you wouldn’t let any of us leave the house without every detail of what we were doing. You hardly paid attention to us when we spoke because you were too busy looking for the next fight. You carried at least two blades and a gun and you hid some around the house.”

William tensed. He hid them so Alice couldn’t find or reach them, but the truth remained that he hid weapons in a home where a child could stumble across them because he was too scared of what might happen if he didn’t.

“Now, you’re running a clinic helping people struggling like you. How is that not an accomplishment for you to be proud of?” Henry asked.

“Because I do so for myself—”

“Who fucking cares?” Henry spat, his hold tight on William’s hands. “You’re going out. You’re doing what you can, whatever that may be. You’re helping people who otherwise wouldn’t have got it. You have the right to be proud of what you are doing.”

Then Henry settled his hand on William’s shoulder, the right one. He tried to escape, but Henry held firm. He looked William in the eye when he said, “I know you hate this.”

“When I should be grateful?” he interjected.

“No,” Henry replied so simply, and yet, the word reverberated louder than anything he had heard. “Nothing you went through should have happened. Do you understand? Fearworn took something from you that is entirely yours, only to wake up and discover something had replaced a part of you that you couldn’t even mourn. Yes, it’s fortunate you can still do everything you once did, but you are allowed to be angry.”

Henry caught him by the back of the head, bringing their foreheads together. There was anger in his eyes, pain and hurt, none of it directed at William. Directed at the world, maybe, and William felt, for the first time, that it would be okay to scream and cry and break down like a child as Henry said, “Be upset. Hurt. Mourn. Curse, if you must, but never tell yourself that these feelings are unjust because they aren’t and know there is no time limit on sorrow. Should you mourn your arm until the day you die, so be it. No one has the right to tell you otherwise, not even yourself. Do you understand?”

Henry pulled him into a hug before the first tear fell. William clung to his brother, feeling foolish for not talking to him sooner, and knowing he couldn’t have even if he tried. Henry was right. He had scars. Some days would be better than others. He had already learned that. But it was nice to hear Henry say it, to know he wasn’t overreacting. And since they were on the topic of sensitive subjects.

“Henry, you should know,” he swallowed hard, looking at Nicholas over Henry’s shoulder. “Nicholas and I…”

“I know,” Henry whispered.

“Do you think our parents suspect…?”

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